Improv
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. I shouldn't have invited the children to the factory. I should have gotten a pet. A nice quiet pet. During the factory tour, everything goes... well, wonky.
1. Prologue

Prologue

_In Which Something Unpleasant Happens_

He could hardly believe his eyes as he held up the chocolate bar, the ticket reflecting glowing gold in his eyes, making him look briefly like a boy possessed; which he was, in a sense: possessed with the wonder of having won a trip to the magical, mystical chocolate factory. A chance to make his dreams come true, or, at least, his dreams of walking inside the gates that closed the chocolate factory off from the rest of the world. And these dreams were most important to him, often played out and replayed in his mind just before he drifted off to sleep. He was a poor boy; he couldn't afford many dreams.

When the news about the golden tickets had reached him, for one moment he was positive that it was his great chance to do something, to be somebody. It seemed that his destiny was handed to him on a silver platter, or perhaps a gold one— the light that shone in his eyes was not all reflected glory. A great deal of it was the slightly manic glow of an over-excited child.

With this ticket in hand, what wouldn't he do— he could conquer the world, suddenly, fold it up small and put it in his back pocket, wear a crown, be somebody. He could be— a _contender_.

As he rushed from the shop, that strange light still in his eyes, the shopkeeper turned to a customer with a slight shake of his head.

"Rabies," he said.

The customer folded up his newspaper and gave a corresponding sigh of world-weariness. "Sad," he agreed.

Charlie paid them no heed, mostly because he was out of the store by that point and running home.

I've got a golden ticket— I've got a golden ticket— I've got a golden chance to win the day—

Even then, in the midst of his euphoria and in the back of his mind, he thought what great song lyrics that would make, with, perhaps, a little altering. But truly he was too much concerned with running home as fast as he could, not letting anyone stand in his way. His excitement carried him on winged feet closer and closer to his destination.

As he passed the alley across from the chocolate factory, he turned to look at it, a great growing smile appearing on his face, and this is when an unseen someone clocked him over the head with a cricket bat.

He hit the ground rather hard, and as he began to pass out, heard the following conversation.

"It is kind of mean to take it from a poor kid like that—"

"You already knocked him out! Was that for nothing? You just do that for kicks, or what?"

"No, I was just— having second thoughts, I guess."

"Look, he's lying on the ground, fast asleep. In one hand, a half-eaten chocolate bar. In the other hand, a golden ticket. So, so, when he wakes up—"

"Yes?" The first voice sounded hopeful.

"Well, he'll still have the chocolate, won't he?"

"Yes, but—"

"For God's sake, Mandy," snapped the second voice irritably, "just reach out and grab it!"

After that, he knew no more.


	2. Begin at the Beginning

Beginning at the Beginning

_In Which A First-Person Narrative Is Commenced_

I'm sure you know the story. Its been repeatedly told; and there are only so many variations one can handle before it gets old. But never before has it been thus related, with words from myself, your host, the Chocolatier of the Year, the Cream of the Crop, an advocate of truth, love, beauty, retrospective dentistry, and stripy things. Sweet things of all shapes and sizes and textures and taste and looks and intelligence spill from my fantastic mind, for I am not prejudiced, and you'll find I never forget anything, except for sometimes when it simply cannot be helped, such as when I've got too much in my brain and something gets pushed out, or when I wasn't paying enough attention in the first place.

See, this is the truth of it, as best as I can recall.

I was in the Inventing Room one day when I suddenly thought how wonderful, how truly amazing, it would be to have an intelligent someone come to the factory to live with me and help me make the world's best candy. Yes, I was doing this already, but the process was largely gone through alone; even the Oompa Loompas backed off when I started inventing things. I suppose I've experimented on them a few times too many, and rather a lot of their number suffer as a consequence. So, whilst chewing the taffy that is supposedly strong enough to stick your little brother to the ceiling with it while not sticking your teeth together, I got to thinking. And chewing. A lot.

First I worried a little about what would happen if the mixture wasn't quite right yet and I did indeed get my teeth stuck together. Would I have to have surgery? I can't stand needles. I like pointy objects in general, but needles just make me shiver. And when you're about to be stuck by a needle, shivering is not a good thing to do. Trust me. I know.

Then I thought about the possibility of making some sort of candy that bounces off the walls and floors or even off your older sister's forehead. Perhaps with some kind of homing device that would make it go back to its owner. If it comes to that, why not a candy boomerang? Wonderful to throw at people and then it would come back and you could hide it and say, "Who me?" And if we're going to go in for candy weapons, why not a candy black-jack? A candy cosh? A candy machine gun?

Oooh, candy machine gun— yeah—

I drifted into silence at this point, for, yes, I had been talking out loud. I find it useful to tell myself things. I like to keep myself educated and up on all recent events.

Then, suddenly, my thoughts took an abrupt turn and I found myself remembering the day before, when I'd had an important epiphany. It took a while to recall exactly what it was. Something about hair. And children.

With a snap of my fingers, I leapt up from my chair, only to discover that I hadn't been sitting. Slightly off balance, I stepped backwards to lean against a wall, eyes aglow with my sudden remembrance.

"That's it!" I cried. "It was during the haircut, and there was a grey hair! I knew as I saw it that I was getting older and needed to find someone to take over from me, someone to help me in my dotage, someone to dote on my in my helplessness, someone to watch over me, touched by an angel and flying free! I need, in short, an heir!"

The Oompa Loompas made noise like lightning striking dramatically at this point. They're very observant of their cues.

I stood tall, my eyes alight with a feverish glow, my hair whipping around me (as I stood in front of a very convenient fan), and the light shining off my teeth, which were bared in a grin. I love it when I can remember things that I want to remember. It just makes me feel so darn _accomplished_.

"Or," I said, another thought striking me suddenly, "I could just dye my hair and deny it all."

I glanced over towards the assembled Oompa Loompas, who looked at each other and shook their heads.

"Oh, what do you know," I said shortly, and sat back down in the chair which I had forgotten wasn't there. I sat back down, in fact, on the floor. Folding my arms defiantly, I stared at the wall. "You know," I went on, "its entirely possible that I would enjoy someone being here with me—" I stopped as I couldn't help curling my lip in disgust. Clearly, even I didn't believe what I was saying. And since I was the one I was trying to convince, obviously I had failed. It all seemed so pointless.

"It all seems so— pointless," I said, listlessly. The Oompa Loompas murmured amongst themselves and looked at me with worried, identical faces. I looked back at them and pushed the brim of my hat back up off my forehead.

"You're right," I sighed. "And when you're right, you're abominably right."

I shall blame it forever on the Oompa Loompas that they didn't talk me out of the Golden Ticket plan. It was not one of my brightest ideas. I should have called in an expert. I should have asked adults to come to the factory; not parents, either. Normal, sane adults. But no, I ended up with five children on the way. I suppose in the end that it was because I thought children would be bright, imaginative, innovative, useful, exploitable. Perhaps I was thinking along the lines that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. At least, that's what they tell me. I've never had an old dog, so I couldn't say. Perhaps I should have just skipped the children entirely and just gotten myself a nice quiet pet.

I may never fully understand my motivation for anything.

Somehow, this is almost a comfort.

February the first dawned bright and clear, so much so that I had to shut my eyes and go back to sleep for another few hours. Such a hardship.

However, I did get myself up in time to meet the finders of the golden tickets. Punctuality is everything to a man like me. Well, not so much everything, perhaps, but certainly of paramount importance. After all, to run late could easily lead to disaster. Suppose you were behind time for a meeting, missed a train and was run over by it instead? Suppose you were five minutes late for a school reunion and got hit by a runaway space rocket? Such things have been known to happen. This is why I would warn anyone to take care that they are always exactly on time; not early, not late. _Sharp_.

Ten AM sharp was when the gates swung open, and I called for the visitors to enter. They were a most unprepossessing group. I didn't much like their clothes at all, they had very little sense of style and absolutely no flair. On top of which they looked quite sulky and ill-at-ease. And the children were even worse. Bug-eyed, flat-footed, ugly and peeved. I immediately changed my mind about the whole thing, but by that point they'd already entered the factory gates, and short of rushing out there waving my cane at them and spouting death threats, there was no way of dissuading them from the operation.

So I said, into the loudspeaker, "_Close the gates_."

They kept walking. Completely ignored me.

"_Close the gates!_" I repeated deliberately.

A few of them glanced around in confusion, but none of them stopped walking.

"_Hey!_" I said. "_I'm talking to you! Close— the— gates!_"

They stood dumbfounded for a moment before a few scurried to obey. Clearly they were somewhat unnerved by the whole disembodied-booming-voice-yelling-at-them thing.

I smiled slightly.

Good.

We were off to a good start.

They continued on up to the front doors, and I dropped the confetti, interspersed with candy rats, on their heads. Guaranteed to get a shriek or two.

The shrieks duly gotten from the few young women in the group, I was content to allow them to behold the wonder that was my Welcome Song. There was also a Welcome Mat, though they seemed less impressed with that. However, as they watched the madly whirling puppets go through their musical number, there were definitely a few awed gapes in the audience. I couldn't help but giggle slightly at the expressions on their faces. They looked as though they'd never seen huge dolls burst into flame before.

I said as much.

"You all look as though you've never seen huge dolls burst into flame before," I said.

They all swung round to look at me, looking slightly peeved. "Who're you?" asked one of the girls.

This was an unexpected question, and I wasn't at all sure how to answer it. I glanced around, patted my pockets, looked up at the sky seeking an answer from heaven; and finally remembered that I'd written everything down on my arm. Quickly I hiked up my sleeve.

"Greetings," I read aloud from my skin. "I'm Willy Wanka."

There was silence from them except for the obnoxious sound of obscenely loud gum chewing from the small blond creature.

"Are you sure?" questioned the woman she was with.

I shrugged. "Reasonably," I said. "Although the ink is somewhat smudged. Shall we abandon the world to its fate and meet our maker?" They all gave me bemused stares. "Or should we— just get on with the tour, then," I faltered, lip curling in the face of their confusion. It suddenly struck me that I was standing in front of a group of people— not inventions, not ingredients—_ people_. More people than I'd been around in years.

"Oh dear," I said, turned and went into the factory; if truth be told, not actually caring if they followed me or not.

They did, however, and were standing staring at me with these awful questioning faces as soon as I turned around.

I grimaced at the sight of them and turned to face forward once more, making a mental note not to let the Oompa Loompas talk me into anything ever, ever again.

**A/N: Its surprisingly difficult to write for Wonka. One would think that after spending the last six months trying to get into the Phantom of the Opera's head that he'd be a piece of cake. But he's not. Unless we're talking fruitcake. Which he is. But I digress. A lot, and often. Oh well, just bear with me, is what I'm saying. I'm going to be gone for a little while but I'll update when I get back in a little over a week. I've read some of the fanfiction for this category and I think I can safely say that what I'm planning has not been done, or even attempted. Does this make me unique or just foolish, I wonder— **


	3. Events of an Indescribable Nature

Events of An Indescribable Nature

_In Which The Story Proper Begins, Sort Of_

Still cursing the Oompa Loompas, I swung around once more to glance behind me. People! People, far too many people for my taste. I eyed them as they stood there, leaning back slightly so I could see them all. My sunglasses, purple-tinted, turned them a deep royal. Before I could help myself, my eyes slipped behind them to the crowds still assembled behind the gates. Even more people— tall ones! Short ones! Fat ones! Thin ones! Small ones! Large ones! Long ones! Zip up your pants!

I forced my eyes to return to the visitors to my factory, who were looking at me as if I was a forty-year-old candy maker with a silly expression on his face.

Suddenly I realized that I had a silly expression on my face.

I pointed one finger at the door. "Tour," I said, prompting myself as much as them. No reaction. Clearly, I had them stymied. I could only wish that they hadn't had the exact same effect on me. Gulping nervously, I made my way into the factory proper.

"Don't you want to know who we are?" inquired one of them.

I scoffed. "Honestly, I think with global warming, air pollution, and income tax, I have enough to worry about without learning people's names. We'll all be dead in a thousand years anyway."

"You haven't got income tax figured out?" asked the nebbish man with the precarious comb-over.

"Not at all," I answered. "But that's not what I worry about. The real trick is getting out of paying it. Take heed, my dear children. Taxes lead directly to cancer of the testicles, premature hair loss, and bad breath. Avoid them at all cost."

"Nonsense," said the nebbish man. "Income tax is important. I pay mine every year like a good citizen."

I cast a pointed glance at the pale scalp that showed in abundance through the thin strands of his hair. "So I see."

The little blond girl leapt in front of me and attempted to assault me, but I fended her off with a hand placed firmly on her forehead. "Mr. Wonka," she said, struggling gamely to get free, "I'm Violet Beauregarde."

"How lovely to meet you," I said through my teeth, let go of her head and held her off with my cane. She was shoved aside by a large fat boy who, when he spoke, showered me with small bits of chocolate. The amount of candy in his mouth was so amazing that I was surprised his voice was able to fight its way past.

"Irm Agushtush Gloop," he said, indistinctly. "I ruvshour shoclesh."

I blinked down at him. "What?"

His mother appeared at his side, a large, cheerful-looking matron with two round spots of color on each of her cheeks, a bit like an apple, or a whale who doesn't know how to take a compliment gracefully. "He says he loves your chocolate," she filled in, and I relaxed.

"Oh, you have an _accent_, how _quaint_," I said. "I thought it was a speech impediment of some sort, or all the candy clogging his throat. But its just his _accent_— that's alright then." Clear in my own mind, I brushed past them. A voice came from behind me.

"Don't you wonder who _I_ am?"

I turned around and looked at her— another little girl, this one with brown curls and buck teeth. She blinked at me imperiously, clearly expecting me to fawn over her— or do I mean doe? Some sort of hoofed animal, at any rate.

"No," I said, and turned back around. There was the definite sound of her stomping her foot, and she said, "_Daddy_—"

This left just two children to whom I hadn't been introduced. So much the better, I reckoned, and tried to walk faster. Mr. Nebbish, however, caught up with me.

"I'm concerned about your cavalier attitude to our country, Mr. Wonka," he said. "Income tax is of the utmost importance—"

"Couldn't care less," I said brightly. "But I'm _so_ glad you're on the job."

Leaving him puzzled, I went on. I'd not gotten two steps, however— well, perhaps two– perhaps more, even— who's counting? Pedants— when I realized the itchy feeling on the back of my neck was not my high collar, as I'd thought, but actually was caused by someone staring at me. Two people, in fact, I found out when I turned. One, the remaining child, blinked at me with large blue eyes. I eyed her back, my lip curling back from my teeth of its own volition. She didn't _look_ like a child; her denim jumper and hair tied in pink-bowed pigtails were unconvincing, to say the least. Her companion was likewise confusing to me. For one thing, she— he— was wearing a loose business suit, an ornate necklace, and a slightly dazed expression. For another, his— her— mustache was coming off at one corner.

I tilted my head to look at them.

"And who are you?"

"Mandy," said the child immediately.

"Becky," said the parent, and Mandy stepped on his— her— feet. "Ow— er— not Becky."

"George," supplied Mandy.

"George Becky," said the parent. "Mandy's, um, mother."

"Father," interrupted Mandy, grinning widely.

"Father."

I stared at them a moment longer, then nodded slightly. "'kay." Once again I turned away, then back to blink at them once more. "Are you _sure_?"

"Yes."

"Perfectly."

"We're very excited to be here," said Mandy, bouncing slightly.

"Aha."

There being not much to say after that, we walked onwards down the hall. Feeling quite overwhelmed by the definite presence of these people— people! Real people— behind me, I walked as quickly as possible, fixing my eyes in front of me. Steadfastly, I ignored the feminine mutters of, "_Look at his butt!_" and "_He must work out._" At a guess, I'd say they did not emanate from Mr. Nebbish. Although the blond creature and her mother were a possibility, I decided that it was most likely the source of the remarks were in fact Mandy and her mo— father. P-parent-ish thing. However, I did ignore it, and quite well, I believe, except that my hackles raised. I believe that's what you call it.

"Why is that door so bleepin' small?" asked one of the— people. The li'l boy, I believe, who belonged to Mr. Nebbish. Nebbish Jr. I guess you'd call him, unless, as was extremely possible, his grandfather was Nebbish as well, in which very likely case, he would be Nebbish the Third.

Yes, that sounded about right.

The spoilt girl, now, who so imperiously demanded I discover who she was, deserved to be called just that— Spoilt. As this didn't have a very lovely sound to it, I decided to go with my standard fall-back— li'l girl.

Actually, that would suffice for pretty much everyone, now that I thought about it.

Li'l girl. Li'l boy.

Make things easy. Why not?

Its not as if it actually_ mattered._


	4. A Chocolate Coated Ending

**A Chocolate-Coated Ending**

_In Which The Unexpected Happens, As Usual_

I didn't feel inclined to reply to the li'l boy's question, which was, if you recall, or even if you don't,"Why is this door so bleepin' small?" or something of that ilk, and so instead I simply opened the door to the chocolate room, an anticipatory smile fixed on my face. This is undoubtedly my favourite room. The set-up here is, in a word, sweet. Vibrant colors assault the eye upon entering, giving one the sensation of embarking on an acid trip, as they say, or an LSD-induced daze. Not that I know from personal experience, of course. And not that either of those things have anything to do with the continued popularity of my candy.

Because they don't.

I swear.

Anyway.

Upon entering the chocolate room, the children went wild, although many of the adults were apparently blinded by the light. Or the sheer beauty. Yes, that sounds better. The parents were blinded by the sheer beauty.

The children being, as they so appropriately were, children, they ignored the sheer beauty and concentrated on the possibility of sheer sugar intake.

"Welcome to the chocolate room," I said. "Note the chocolate river, mixed by the chocolate waterfall, fully patented. Observe the chocolate grass, the chocolate walls, the chocolate plants. Please obey the chocolate signs, which are clearly marked (I hope you're beginning to comprehend why this is called the chocolate room, because if you are not, you are quite stupid), and above all, remember that there is someone up above."

The chewing gum girl's mother frowned at me thoughtfully. "You mean God?"

"No, I mean the extremely tall man to your right," I said, and gestured. There was, indeed, an extremely tall man to their right. He's always had a good sense of timing, knowing quite well when to show up, and waved and smiled right on cue.

"Who is he?" asked— someone. I don't believe I was paying attention; I was instead smiling gently up at the giant.

"I believe he wandered over from 'Big Fish,'" I answered, and walked on, swaying gently as I overcame the hills and tussocks— or is it tills and hussocks? Thills and ussocks? Or something else entirely; mounds of chocolate dirt and candy grass is what I mean, at any rate.

Behind me were mutters of, "Big what?" and "Fish?" and "I'm hungry," and "Watch him walk!"

"I know!" "Omigawd!" I left them to their confusion, hoping they'd get used to the sensation, went and admired my grass.

"Have you tried it?" I asked of no one in particular.

"Tried what?"

"Tried my grass, you silly li'l girl. You can chew it, lick it, swallow it—"

"Can you smoke it?" asked Nebbish the Third eagerly.

"I suppose you could," I said thoughtfully. "Though I don't know why you—"

"Cool," said Nebbish the Third nonchalantly, and started stuffing handfuls into his pockets. His father caught at his hands and glared daggers at me.

"What kind of person are you?" he demanded. "Don't pay taxes, push drugs on children—"

"What? He didn't go _near_ the drugs!"

"Question," said the mother of the gum chewing girl, with dubious sense of timing. "How exactly are we supposed to obey the signs?"

I turned to her. "Well, by doing as they say, of course."

She blinked. "But this one says 'No breathing.'"

I blinked back and tipped my head slightly. "Your point?"

"But—"

"Close your eyes," I said, "hold your breath, make a wish."

One by one, they all did.

"I wish he won't start singing," said the li'l boy.

"I wish I had braces," said the li'l girl.

"I wish my gum hadn't lost its flavor two and a half months ago," said the— other li'l girl.

"I wish my hand was a pie so I could eat it," said the— other li'l boy.

"I wish I wouldn't pass out from lack of air," said Mandy.

They did anyway, of course, and I had to wait around whilst they slept. Eventually, they woke up, and things moved on. Regrettably.

"Moving on, regrettably," I said, "I was about to point out that everything in this room is eatable."

"Edible," corrected Mrs. Gum Chewer. I glared at her.

"Eatable."

"Edible," she persisted in a kind of thorough yap.

"Grammar Nazi," I said, "you just try to 'ed' something and see how far you get."

Suddenly there came a scream remarkably like that of an irritated and upset vampire bat. After ducking and looking about a bit, in some surprise as I hadn't known this was bat country, I discovered it had in fact come from the mother of the fat boy— Mrs. Gloop.

"Zat ees not a goode shing you doo!" she cried, her accent growing more marked by the moment. With lightening rapidity, I discerned that she wasn't actually talking to the spoilt girl, who was picking her nose, but instead was directing her invective towards her own son, who was— and I gasped in theatrical horror— using his fat hands to scoop up chocolate out of my river.

"Li'l boy—"

"Agustus!" screamed Ms. Gloop, bouncing forward with a grace previously achieved only by extremely stimulated sperm whales.

"Li'l boy," I repeated, "my chocolate must remain untouched by human hands, you see—"

"Can it be touched by human other things?" asked the one called Mandy, popping up beside me. I blinked at her. "I mean, for instance, suppose I dipped your—"

Her mo— father clapped a hand over her mouth immediately.

"My apologies," he— she said sweetly. "She tends to get a little randy."

"Randy?" I repeated, leaning back to survey her. "Mandy gets a little randy?"

"She does," said George Becky gravely. Mandy giggled. I stepped a little closer, fascinated despite myself.

"Have some candy, Randy Mandy."

"Fine and dandy," she agreed, picked up my hand and licked it. I jumped backwards with a squeal of disgust and had just started Boraxing my hand when it reached my attention that someone had fallen in the chocolate river.

Not just some someone. Mrs. Gloop.

In trying to prevent her corpulent offspring from falling prey to the same fate, her enormous bosoms had caused her to overbalance and tumble headlong. Or, more likely, breastlong. At any rate, she was now in my chocolate river, swallowing it at a truly alarming rate.

"Hey!" I protested. "Save some for others!"

"Herp!" she said, once again having her words obscured by her thick accent, though I suppose the chocolate coating her throat and filling her mouth didn't help. "Herp! Ashishtensh! Herp me! Arm drowningbrkgbrgk!"

"_Arm_ drowning, you silly woman," I said, tsk-tsking severely. "Why are you worried about your _arm_? I should take care of the rest of you first."

"She said 'I'm drowning,'" clarified Mr. Nebbish. "Its just her accent."

"Ah," I said, comprehending. "I suspect I should have known that by now."

"Is she going to be sucked up by a pipe?" inquired Mandy.

"Whatever makes you say that?"

"Because there's a pipe just there, in the river, and she's going around and around and about to be pulled into—"

_Sssss_THUNK!

There was a pause.

"She's stuck," said Nebbish the Third, needlessly.

"Such superfluous observations," I lectured, "take up valuable oxygen and should be done away with if at all possible."

He stared at me. "What?"

"That means shut up, li'l boy."

There was an alarmed scream from the spoilt girl. Everyone turned to her in worry, except me— I turned to her in enjoyable anticipation to see what had disturbed her so. She was staring bug-eyed at something on the hill just near the waterfall, pointing wildly.

"What is it?" she screeched. "Its tiny! Its frightening! Its— it's a little person!" So saying, she fainted with ceremony. Not one person moved to catch her.

"Yes, it's a little person," I said, stepping close and treading, quite by accident, on her outstretched hand. She moaned but didn't awake, so it couldn't have been causing her too much pain. " Or rather, no, it isn't a little person. Its an Oompa Loompa; my workers here at the factory. They are quite effective, except when it comes to volunteering to be experimented on. Usually we have to hold some sort of lottery. I suspect that the amount of them that blew up when I created exploding candy was a bit off-putting—"

"What are they doing?" demanded Mr. Nebbish.

"They're making lascivious movements with their hips!"screamed Mrs. Gum Chewer.

"Nonsense," I said. "They're dancing. Very soon, they'll be singing."

I confess to being a bit worried about what, exactly, they would be singing; when it came to writing words to the song, they had assumed, of course, that it would be Agustus himself who fell into the river. They're very quick on the uptake, are Oompa Loompas, but I doubt they can rewrite a song this fast. However, it remained to be seen—

And seen it was.

They went ahead with their choreography; the words, however, came out somewhat muddled with haste.

"_Mrs. Gloop/ Mrs. Gloop/ _

_She's fallen headlong in the soup/ _

_Leaving her little son behind/ _

_except he's not that small, you'll find/ _

_when you look at his fat face/ _

_your lunch leaves you without a trace/ _

_you start to retch, the room will swirl/ _

_if your stomach is weak you'll certainly hurl/ _

_There's no getting around someone this big/ _

_there's nothing to do about this pig/ _

_except avoid him if you can/ _

_this monstrosity unknown to man/ _

_that's why we envy Mrs. Gloop/ _

_who's fallen headlong in the soup/_

_when you only have chocolate-covered sight/_

_you no longer can see this horrible fright."_

I couldn't help but applaud anyway. E for effort, and all that. After all, its not every day you get this sort of opportunity.

"That's horrible," said Mrs. Gum Chewer. "I mean, singing about a woman who's stuck in a pipe, singing about her son that way—

Indeed, Agustus had started to cry.

"Please, fat boy," I said kindly, "cease and desist. You're blubbering all over my grass."

Becky, meanwhile, was still watching Mrs. Gloop. "Is she going to be stuck in there forever?" he— she— asked wonderingly.

"Yes," I said. There was another _ssssthunk! _and Mrs. Gloop shot the rest of the way up the pipe as the pressure propelled her upwards. "I mean, no."

"Mommy," sobbed Agustus. I eyed him for a long moment.

"On with the tour," I suggested, and no one denied me.

**A/N: I think I'm being influenced a little more by Dahl's book, now. Not on purpose or anything, it just seems to be happening. But Wonka is undoubtedly the Depp version. And I suppose some of you might not know this, but Mandy and Becky are in fact somewhat based on people I know on PPN. Thanks for letting me use your names, guys!**


	5. The Need For Speed

**A Need for Speed**

_In Which the Chapter Title is Not a Drug Reference, We Swear_

I led the visitors onward, tripping lightly (and falling heavily) down the meadow towards the lower riverbank. Behind me came the less-than-rhythmic sobbing of the fat boy, as the other children taunted him with the sort of time-honored jibes often employed on schoolgrounds after the bully has beaten the small boy into submission, and a pulp— which I know from first-hand experience, I'm sorry to admit. (Not that I was the small boy, you understand— no, no, I've known for years that its much more worthwhile to be the bully.)

"Your mother got sucked up a tube, nyah nyah nyah nyah."

The remaining parents did little to shush their repellant offspring. In fact, George Becky joined in with a will, and he and his daughter appeared to be having great fun. Tempted as I was to join them, I was having to pay attention to my own footing, for the Oompa Loompas had appeared out of the blue, as they were wont to do, and I had to tapdance my way out of stepping on them, although perhaps it was more of a cockeyed waltz.

"Yes?" I bent down in order to hear the Oompa Loompa's whispered words. When my ear hove into view, he leant forward to relay his message, and ended up screaming in my ear instead. As my eardrums rattled and an expression of distaste passed over my face, I wondered what it was about this that they found so all-fired entertaining. Gosh darn it, they do it all the time!

I turned to the group, slightly apprehensive at how they were going to take the news.

"Well," I said brightly, "I have good news and bad news. Y'wanna hear the bad news first? Good policy, always take the let-down before th' high. Not that I know about highs any more than I know about the suicidal depression that comes after them, but we are trying to convince people that the title of this chapter has nothing whatsoever to do with drugs, so I'll skip th' lecture and just let you know right now that the li'l boy's mother appears to have drowned in the chocolate vat."

There was a shocked, horrified, awestruck, aghast, stunned, bowled-over, bedazed, appalled, dismayed, traumatized, scandalized silence. At this point the Oompa Loompa took my thesaurus away from me.

Agustus Glood appeared incapable of forming a coherent sentence, but he was kind of like that anyway. Mr. Nebbish filled in with, "What's the good news?"

"The good news, well, is that she had been about five minutes away from being made into strawberry-coated, chocolate-flavored fudge— no wait, isn't that a little redundant?— chocolate-flavored strawberry-coated fudge— hmm— still doesn't sound right, but she was nearly put in a new batch and we managed to get her chocolate-bloated body out before that happened! Yes, we found her floating on the top and pulled her right out!" I added with a smile and an illustrative gesture. "We had to use a crane!"

"But," said the now semi-orphaned li'l boy.

"Aww, come on, you can't tell me you wanted to have your mother made into chocolate-covered, strawberry-flavored fudge," I coaxed. "I _knew_ I'd get it right eventually!"

The boy appeared to be considering for a moment.

Then he said, "Mmmmmmmm."

I leaned back from him, more than a bit appalled myself. "—on with the tour." Grimacing, I turned from him and walked down towards the river, signalling to the attendant Oompa Loompa to have the boat brought around. Clearly, in letting the boy's mother drown, I had committed a bit of a fax pas."

Too late, I realized I'd been voicing my thoughts aloud again.

"That's fo pah," corrected Mr. Nebbish, and I rounded on him in outrage.

"_What _did you call me?"

The boat came then, and so Mr. Nebbish was saved from a violent caning. They stumbled onboard, nearly falling over as the boat rocked, not an able pair of sealegs between them. I myself got on with my usual grace; it was entirely Mandy's fault that I was tripped up and landed lying lengthways across both her and George Becky's lap. I scrambled to extricate myself from this situation, a job that was made infinitely more difficult by the fact that Mandy had clamped all available limbs around my lower body, and George Becky was engrossed in examining my upper. Finally I flailed my way into falling off their laps, landing on the pink hard-candy floor of the still-rocking boat at their high-heel-shoed feet with a jarring thump, which I just realized is rather a lot of description for one sentence with very few commas.

I pulled myself upright and dusted myself down. The boat started off with a lurch and I was forced to support myself on Ms. Gum Chewer's, for lack of better word, shoulder. She gazed at me with such passion that I let out a squeak of alarm; for all I know she was about to rip off my waistcoat right then and there! I stumbled back and sat on a seat by myself, eyeing the other occupants of the boat with a jaundiced eye. Maybe it wasn't jaundice. Maybe it was pink-eye. Anyway, I was less pleased with things than I should have been. Certainly we did not expect Ms. Gloop to bite the big one, to go to the Big Fudge-Mixer in the sky— what now would we do with her blister of a son?

Keep on truckin', I supposed.

We passed a variety of rooms, and as I could have expected, the one that took Mr. Nebbish's eye is the one I wish he would have stayed away from. He looked shocked and turned to stare at me.

"Sex toys?" he said. "Sex toys?"

"Eatable," I placated, but this didn't seem to make things better. Luckily, Ms. Gum Chewer had been looking as well, and inquired, "Hair cream? What do you use hair cream for?"

"Why, to lock in moisture!" I replied, and gave my sleek hair a primp to demonstrate, trying to ignore the mutters that came from Mandy and her father.

"I'll show him moisture—"

"I'll show him locking in—"

The next scheduled stop was the Inventing Room.

The next stop in actuality was just outside it, when Mandy fell into the river.

A/N: The inspiration for Becky is deep in the midst of Hurricane Katrina (not to mention several of my in-laws) so here's thinking of you, kid! Stay safe and dry.


	6. The Virtues of Cannibalism

**The Virtues of Cannibalism**

_In Which Things Transpire that the Author Wishes She Hadn't Thought Up In The First Place_

Luckily (for Mandy, anyway) she wasn't such a sinkable battleship as Mrs. Gloop had been. We fished her out in good time before she drowned, and she stood on the bank shivering for a moment, as if in shock. Hers was a resilient personality, however, and she soon began licking herself off with every evidence of enjoyment. I watched her, somewhat askance, a little leery of the tongue action.

"Cannibal," said the spoilt girl nasally, her nose in the air. Mandy tromped on her toe, producing a very satisfying, "Ow, Daddy, that hurt!"

"Now children," I said, "there's nothing wrong with cannibalism. Many great nations have been founded on the practice: Rome, Ireland, Ethiopia, the Donner Party. Why, in Russia they've been eating people for years!"

Mr. Nebbish, never one to remain silent when there was complaining to be done, stared at me with an expression fast approaching outrage, via way of concern and almost-but-not-quite-lingering-constipation. "I find your views on that subject highly disturbing, Mr. Wonka."

"Bite me!" I said brightly. I was merely trying to reinforce my opinion in the most effective way, but he seemed to take offense.

"There's no call to be childish about this—"

"Then, by all means, please don't be. There are far too many children present as it is. Shall we proceed?" Hiking my cane in the air and swinging it a bit, I succeeded in clocking Nebbish the Third in the nose, biffing the fat boy on his stomach, and jodying Ms. Gum Chewer on the shin on the return swing, although she seemed to regard this as a friendly overture. Feeling rather proud of my efforts and adopting an expression of blithe ignorance, I walked on by.

"Mr. Wonka," purred Ms. Gum Chewer, "I couldn't help but wonder if you—"

She fumbled. I quirked an eyebrow. She stuttered. I frowned. She spat a little on accident. I grimaced. She muttered. I waited, but she seemed to have run out of sentence endings.

"—dropped this handkerchief?" she finished finally, whipping one out of her pocket. I managed a pained smile and took it delicately between forefinger and thumb, glad once more that I wore my gloves. It's the germs, you see— I can't stand the idea of billions of tiny invisible orgasms crawling all over my poor defenseless body.

—is orgasms not the word I mean?

Oh dear.

Organisms! Organisms!

"Nope," I said, smiling determinedly. "Not mine." With it still in my hand, held quite carefully pinched between pointer and thumb, my other fingers arranged neatly as well— pinky folded neatly, ring finger bent beneath it, middle finger pointed straight up— I turned on the rest of the group and offered it to each one in turn. "Yours? No? Yours? No? Yours? No? Yours? No? Yours? No?"

It turned out not to belong to anyone. As a matter of fact, thinking back on the fixed smile which Ms. Gum Chewer wore throughout this whole thing, I believe it may have been nothing more than a ploy which would enable her to speak to me. There is something very wrong with Ms. Gum Chewer. I should have advised her to see a doctor immediately.

Now, you see, I say "thinking back" because afterwards, there was a sort of— mishap in the inventing room.

I did everything I was supposed to do. I warned the children not to touch, experiment, inhale, imbibe, drink, inject, lick, insert, hold, smoke, or breathe heavily on anything in that room. That should have been enough; but it wasn't, of course, because I made a simple mistake— I didn't warn the parents.

I've invented this candy, you see, that does some fairly spectacular things to your face.

"What is that?" asked the gum chewer, sounding very grossed out.

"Stretch candy!" I exclaimed, getting rather excited. "My newest and bestest invention, if I do say so myself, and since everyone who tried it had their mouths stretched beyond usefulness, I have to! Chew one of these buggers, and wonderful and amazing things happen to your skin, it stretches out and sags and hangs and basically makes you look like Joan Rivers before her multiple surgeries! Disgust your friends, amuse your enemies!" I finally petered to a stop, breathing a bit harder than normal and waiting, mouth agape in a giant grin, for them to make some sort of comment.

"Is it gum?" asked the gum chewer.

"It could be," I said. "I imagine if you swallowed it, it would—"

"Let me try," commanded the li'l girl, and held out one hand, imperiously. I moved to put it into her palm, then stopped.

"No, I don't think so," I said thoughtfully. "Its too strong a dose for a li'l girl like you— you don't have enough skin for it to work correctly. We need someone with a considerably bigger head, like, for instance—"

Can I help it that my eyes alighted on Ms. Gum Chewer? She was practically in my face as it was, it wasn't as though I had a lot of choice. And the mischievous smile that appeared on my lips at this moment wasn't entirely one of anticipation— although, to be perfectly truthful, which I always, always am, I looked forward to the following events with excitement bordering on organism.

—again, probably not the word I mean.

"Care to try it?" I enquired, quirking an eyebrow at her challengingly.

"Of course," she said smoothly, and popped it into her mouth.

"Not my finger," I said. "The candy."

"Beg pardon," she said, still smoothly, around my inserted digit, "I got momentarily confused."

The gum was, in due time, tucked in and almost ferociously masticated as she tried to outdo her li'l girl, who was staring at her in outright fascination and chewing furiously as well. I looked back and forth between them both and shivered slightly, my lip curling up in its familiar way at the disgusting sight. The gum chewer shifted her gaze and eyed me.

"If you hate gum so much then why do you make it?"

"If you like gum so much why don't you marry it?" I retorted smartly.

"You can't marry gum, its an inanimate object!"

"So're you!" I said, and was satisfied with that end to the argument. I turned my attention back to Ms. Gum Chewer, and covered my smirk with my hands. It was quite amusing—

So were the shrieks of terror.

"Mom!" screamed the gum chewing girl. "What _happened_!"

"What do you mean?" asked her mother, perkily.

"Your _skin_ is _melting_ off your _face_!"

"No need for so many italics," I warned her. "Your voice'll get stuck that way."

"Mirror," said Ms. Gum Chewer, eyes wide.

Her face was, in fact, rather gruesome. The skin had drooped so it hung a few inches below her chin, leaving scant covering on the rest of her, her eyes looked sunken and red. It wasn't harmful in the least, and the effects wore off after a few hours, unless of course she happened to swallow—

_Gulp!_

Oh dear.

"That would be the part I was about to mention," I said. "Swallowing it is a very, very, very, very, very very bad thing." Ms. Gum Chewer turned eyes wide with shock, horror, and other things on me.

"What. Did you. Do. To my. Face."

"We can clear it up!" I said brightly, momentarily astounded at her ability to turn one sentence into many short ones. "Maybe. It's a possibility. There's a chance. I've been thinking about making a cure. We'll work on it." Turning from her and ignoring the shocked faces of the rest of the tour, I hollered for an Oompa Loompa. One presented himself quickly, ready to receive my instructions.

I bent down to tell him.

"Take her down to the Rhinoplasty Arena. Alert the usual observers, will you, we want to sell _all_ the tickets this time."

When I turned around, oddly enough, the gum chewer's mother wasn't the only one looking horrified. I looked at them for a minute. "I'll give you a cut of the profits," I promised her, tucking my crossed fingers behind my back. "After all, you're providing the show!"

For some reason, this didn't help. Funny, it worked with the Oompa Loompas. So, now somewhat at a loss, I simply shooed her along.

"Shoo," I said. "Shoo shoo, shoo."

She shooed. The Oompa Loompas assisted. And then there was much singing; once more, entirely made up on the spot.

"_The story of Ms. Beauregarde,_

_Should be on a Hallmark card_

_One upon which words are wrote_

_Descriptive of a condolence note_

_As in, 'I know things are quite bad,_

'_Your parents' death has made you sad,_

'_Your dog is sick, you have no life,_

'_You're being sued, and your wife,_

'_Of maybe twenty years or more_

'_Has just pelted out the door_

'_And run off with the mailman.'_

_(Please top that one, if you can.)_

'_But just remember,' says the verse,_

'_Life could always become worse!_

'_Cheer up! Although your life is hard,_

'_At least you're not Ms. Beauregarde!'"_

They took a bow, and I couldn't help but applaud.

"Aren't they marvellous!" I rhapsodized. "I declare, they just get better every time! Well, you know what they say— improvisation is an art."

All I got was silence. Eventually the force of it dimmed my grin somewhat, though I was determined not to let them entirely get to me. I stared at them haughtily.

"_Lunacy_ is supposed to be subversive," I said primly, "not _dullness_."

I don't think they got that.

We watched as Ms. Gum Chewer was led away by the Oompa Loompas. The father of the spoilt girl stood up straighter.

"Still," he said in his silly British accent, "at least she's not in any mortal danger, unlike—" By a series of stilted, stiff gestures, he managed to indicate that he was talking about one of the children; about which one, I didn't know, but I frowned and squinted at him, trying gamely to figure it out.

"Oh!" I said at last, pleased with myself. "You mean the mother of the fat boy! Oh, yeah, well she was doomed from the start. It's a wonder she didn't drown right away, but I guess she floated a bit more than normal—"

"Mr. Wonka," said Mr. Nebbish, "your attitude towards Agustus and his poor mother—"

"I'm sorry," I said acidly, "I didn't realize you two were in love. Perhaps next time you should avoid eating so much chocolate, it does tend to give rise to those sorts of feelings, y'know— ick." I shuddered slightly. "Yes, avoiding it would be just the ticket. Shall we roll onwards?"

I waited, bright smile intact, for some sort of contradiction or argument or nay-saying of any sort. I didn't receive any.

We went on.

* * *

**A/N: Almost entirely unhappy with this chapter. Sorry.**


	7. Room For Squares

**Room For Squares**

_In Which the Requisite Nut Jokes Are Made, Discussed, and Moved On From With A Minimum of Embarrassment_

Maybe it was the euphoria that followed not having the gum chewing girl's mother around anymore— certainly there was something in the air that made me rather happy, as she was led away and the air was filled with the sounds that children make after their toy-dispenser has been unexpectedly taken away with them. Or maybe it was the music making me a little feisty; I don't know. Either way, the result was the same.

"Let's boogie!" I said.

"Okay!" said Mandy, as though she'd been waiting for me to say that through half a movie.

Eventually, she was detached, and we moved on.

We were able to take the Glass Elevator after that, a feat which hasn't been accomplished for some time, because we use Windex and birds kept flying into it and smashing themselves all over the glass. It was gross. _Ew_. Plus, they went totally to waste, since not even the Oompa Loompas would make them into crow pie; and its been my experience that the Oompa Loompas eat _everything, _which is part of the reason why it was kind of dangerous to bring small children into the factory in the first place. At least none of them brought any pets.

Herding five children into an elevator is no fun. The gum chewing girl whined that she was claustrophobic, the fat boy kept crying about his mother, the spoilt girl demanded three elevators for at home in different colors to correspond with her outfits (why would anyone want to correspond with an outfit? Clothes can't write letters. I don't get this. It makes no sense. Does life come with some sort of guidebook or something?), Nebbish the Third got sick as soon as the elevator started moving, and Mandy and her "father," whose mustache was slipping further and further down his chin till it resembled the kind of goatee Colonel Sanders would be proud to wear, were punching all the buttons simultaneously.

So, the elevator stalled. No surprise there, really. I think it was utterly baffled. Elevators are not the most intelligent of God's creatures— if God created the elevator, which I doubt, quite frankly. There's something to be said for intelligent design, and if I (or God, for that matter) had created an elevator, I (and certainly he) would have included some reasoning capabilities, of which this elevator had none. It wouldn't go up; it wouldn't go down; it wouldn't go sideways, frontways, longways, backways, noways, broadways— anything!

"I thought you said it went any way you like," said Nebbish the Third.

"It does, if you treat it nicely," I said, patting the glass and ignoring the strangled shrieks of pervy merriment that came from the corner where Mandy and George Becky were now engaged with making squeaky noises on the glass with their fingernails.

At that point, the gum chewing girl decided she was really claustrophobic and started going crazy ape bonkers stark raving mad as a balloon on us, biting people on the ankles and landing a hefty kick to Mr. Nebbish when he tried to calm her down. Not that he didn't deserve it. I think anyone who starts a statement with, "Now, little girl," gets exactly what he deserves.

"Now, li'l girl," I said severely, and she burst into tears.

Eventually we got the doors open, prying them with our fingers— or, rather, Mr. Nebbish was convinced to pry at them with his fingers. He wasn't using them, anyway. Certainly not after they got smashed a few times.

We were just climbing out of the elevator when the Oompa Loompa repair crew showed up. I made sure to congratulate them heartily on their excellent timing, and then carried on.

"Next is the nut room," I said, "where we put all the crazy people."

"What do crazy people have to do with candy?" asked Nebbish the Third, rolling his eyes.

"You don't want to know," I said, secretively.

They all eyed me. "Mr. Wonka, if you continue making these sorts of hints about what you put in your candy, I would suggest you contact your lawyer before too much longer," said Mr. Nebbish.

I tsk-tsked at him. "Lawyers, I wouldn't have a lawyer in the factory! He might chew the furniture. Come along, people. In the nut room. I'm sure most of you will feel right at home."

"I have nuts at home, you know," said the spoilt girl's father. I blinked at him for a moment.

"No better place for them," I said finally, "but have a look at mine."

"If you insist," he grumbled, and I shoved him into the room with my cane.

As I had intimated, or suggested, or advised, or indicated, or invoked, or attested, or pointed to, or promised, or betoken, or bespoke, or presaged, or foreshadowed, or foretold, or specified, or denoted, or implied, or prefigured, or prophesied, and curse those Oompa Loompas for continually taking away my thesaurus! Which brings me to another thought— what's another word for 'thesaurus'?

I had a point; I think I remember it. Ah yes.

As I had mentioned, the nut room contains nuts of all shapes and sizes and sorts. What's more, the actual nuts are, appropriately, shelled and sorted by some local crazy people I recruited from the Sanitarium in town. I watched as everyone duly reacted to this.

"Don't they ever revolt?" asked Nebbish the Third.

"Of course not!" I said. "But when they do, we just put them in straightjackets for a few hours. That's why we've trained them to be able to shell the nuts with their feet. And what happens when they find a bad nut, I'm sure you will ask? See that great big hole in the floor? It grinds the bad nuts up, like a garbage disposal. And we never have to deal with them again. Unless they come back," I said, sobering abruptly. My eyes widened. "Sometimes they come back—"

"But why crazy people?" asked the spoilt girl's father, who was undoubtedly wishing he'd thought of it first.

"Why, because it's a wonderful pun, of course!" I told him, beaming from ear to ear. "And it makes a wonderful conversation piece."

I noticed that the spoilt girl's face was gradually squinching up into the raisin-like expression that meant she was trying to put a sentence together and invariably presaged a comment of such astounding stupidity that I would call her the poster child for mandatory castration. However, this time she surprised even me.

"Daddy," she said, "I want a crazy person."

"You have one at home," said her father, frowning down at her concernedly.

"Mommy isn't enough! I want a _trained _crazy person."

He squinted at her, squinted at me, put his glasses on and squinted through those, squinted down into the room of nut-shelling nutsos, then finally said, "Mr. Wonka—"

"No," I said.

"But—"

"No."

"I just—"

"No."

"I—"

"Can you imagine the outrage there would be if I let you have a crazy person at any price?" I said, tapping my cane against the floor. "Think about it. If I let you have one, everyone would want one, there'd be crazy people all over the place, and chaos would undoubtedly ensue. I know that sounds kind of like a fun way to live, but think of the government. They'd feel that they weren't special if there were crazy people just wandering the streets instead of all cooped up in the Parliament Building."

"Daddy!" screeched the spoilt girl. "Make him stop talking and get me a psycho!"

It was then that we discovered that the one thing fathers are really, truly, honestly, dependably, verily, rightfully, actually, earnestly, sincerely, actively, materially, factually, effectively, alright _alright_! Give me that back!

It was then that we discovered that the one thing fathers are truly afraid of is their daughters.

The spoilt girl's nut-owning dad clambered over the fence with a sigh and started down the ladder into the enclosure. I leaned over the railing to watch, rather anxious about how things were going to turn out.

Not well, actually.

It wasn't so much chaos that ensued, as carnage. Hundreds of nut-crazed lunatics descended on the hapless Mr. Spoilt, pushing him grimly towards the looming hole in the middle of the floor, and when the screaming stopped, most of us were looking desperately the other way. I won't describe things. Just know that it wasn't pretty. Even the Oompa Loompas looked somewhat somber when they came out to sing, and you know, what with all the cocoa beans, they're _never_ serious.

"The sad, sad tale of Mr. Salt

"And how his life ground to a halt

"Involves details you might not like

"To relate to your little tyke

"For one thing, your cute little tot

"Will wonder how the crazies were caught

"To tell them 'Traps' would be perturbing

"But what is even more disturbing

"Is how, at his daughter's proposal

"Dad put himself at their disposal

"Since they pitched him down the hole

"They don't seem to be merciful

"In fact, they seem quite irritated

"That their freedom is so underrated.

"In retribution, you will find,

"They flipped the switch from 'off' to 'grind'

"Being further 'peeved,' they say,

"The switch then went straight to 'puree.'

"That's the tale of Mr. Salt,

"And how his life ground to a halt."

Not in the best taste, I admit— but not a lot we can do about it now. I bowed to them; they bowed back, and presented the spoilt girl with a barrel of nuts to take some of the sting from her father's death.

Surprisingly, that seemed to work. She named the barrel Gilbert and seemed quite happy with it. Such a simple child.

We turned away from the nut room and I stared at the visitors to my factory for a moment, finding myself quite unable to recall why so many of them were so short. Perhaps it was something in the water.


	8. Politics and Somewhat Offensive Jokes

Politics and Somewhat Offensive Jokes

_In Which there Politics and Somewhat Offensive Jokes, Although the Offensive Jokes are Not About Politics In Any Way Shape or Form_

Clearly it was time to move on. I almost expected the group to be a bit shaken, perhaps, at what had happened to one of their number, but they were fairly philosophical about it. I believe it was the spoilt girl herself who put it best.

She said, "This way, when Mommy goes, I inherit everything all at once!"

"That's right," I said approvingly, and in fact there were murmurs of agreement from all others present except perhaps Mr. Nebbish. Nebbish the Third was clearly heard to wonder if they would ever put out a video game in which you could dispose of people the way the spoilt girl's father had been; I think it very likely, myself.

We made our way back to the Great Glass Elevator and hopped in. Well, I hopped... most of the others sort of tripped. Maybe I should put some sort of sign up... "Mind the Gap." Or "Mind the Three Foot Difference Between the Edge of the Floor and the Edge of the Elevator." Then again, this would really take the fun out of things for me. I can't be held responsible for people who just don't pay attention; I just get amusement from the things that happen to them.

The Elevator was still broken. Nebbish the Third attempted to dismantle it with a hammer that he kept in his back pocket; strangely, this didn't help. Mandy leaned back against the side and declared that her feet hurt and she had no problem with staying there for a while, to which my response was, "Say, have you ever worn pajamas with garden gnomes on them?"

"No," said Mandy, looking discomfited.

"You sure?"

"I sleep in the nude," she declared.

I frowned slightly. "I sleep in a bed."

"I sleep on a futon," offered George Becky. "Its big... enough for two."

"Is the futon in the nude, with Mandy?"

"Well, sometimes I don't use sheets—"

"Nude futon?" said Mandy, trying not to laugh.

"Got me there!" I said cheerfully, and then had to do a quick sidestep when she seemed to take this as an invitation. Everyone was looking completely baffled by this time, so I reckoned that my work there was done and led them back out into the hallway, smiling slightly at the sounds of many of them missing the step down and falling.

"Okey-dokey. We tried the Great Glass Elevator and it failed us mightily. Therefore it is now time to try the Mediocre Wooden Staircase."

"Does it fly?" asked the gum-chewing girl noisily.

"Nooo..."

"Does it make interesting noises?" asked the spoilt girl.

"Can you hit it?" asked Nebbish the Third.

"Don't know!" I said cheerfully. "This is it. Why don't you try and find out for yourself?"

Nebbish the Third frowned in what might almost have approximated thought and then, rashly, reached out and struck the banister with his hand. I whapped him upside the head with mine.

"Ow!" He turned to me in indignation, but I just shrugged.

"Wasn't me," I said. "Must have been the stairs. Okay, people— people— walk— up the stairs."

I ignored the chorus of groans from the children; I'd become used to them over the course of the day, anyway. Leading the way, I swung my cane energetically, but they'd gotten used to this in turn and knew enough to duck, except for Mr. Nebbish. It went hard with him, since he had less protection on his head than most people and the cane tip landed squarely on his bald spot.

"Hey!"

"Indignation gets you nowhere," I called back. "Once a victim, always a victim. I'm sure Einstein would have said the same thing. Now, here is the room we were looking for." I turned to them just in front of the door and raised a finger to my lips to shush them. "Be vewwy vewwy quiet."

They leaned forward. "Why?" Mandy whispered.

"Because," I whispered back, "I'm hunting wabbits."

Basking as usual in their puzzlement, I pushed open the door.

There was much photograph taking and things of that sort going on inside. The Oompa Loompas adore taking pictures of themselves, sometimes in provocative or compromising positions. Oddly, when I tell people this, they look slightly sickened. However, I had invented something rather ingenious, if I do say so myself— and I believe I just did.

I paused by a camera.

"Wonkavision!" I said. "TM. Its Wonkatastic! C with a circle around it. It'll knock your eyes out! Patent pending."

"What is it?" asked the gum chewing girl, chewing gum.

I paused for a moment, blinking at her. "Wonkavision!" I said. "TM. Its Wonkatastic! C with a circle around—"

"What does it do?" interrupted Mr. Nebbish. I glanced at him.

"Why, it takes you and puts you into the TV program, of course! What else?"

"What does that have to do with candy?"

A long pause. I admit that I didn't have this quite worked out yet.

"Everything, you silly goose! I'm amazed you can't see it yourself. But enough squabbling. How about a demonstration?"

The Oompa Loompas carried in a giant chocolate bar, which I attempted to explain.

"Its got to be real big—"

"I'll bet it is," came the silky whisper of Mandy behind me, and a satin giggle from George Becky, whose mustache had been lost somewhere along the way and was looking most definitely not like a man at all. I tried my best to ignore them.

"—real big so it won't—"

"What," asked Mandy with a sort of cotton politeness, "exactly is the surprise in the Nutty Crunch Surprise?"

"That's it!" I exclaimed, and leapt at her. Swiftly I wrestled her to the ground, using only my fingertips. I think the fact that I was tickling her worked in my favor.

"Oooh stoppit stop stoppit stop..."

"Give up?"

"Just stopstopstopstop gah!"

I held on grimly till she was breathless from laughter, then stood up, dusting my hands off, and turned to the rest of them. "Alright. Who wants to give it a try?"

Becky's hand went up immediately.

"Not that," I said, pointing downwards at the still prone and panting Mandy. "I mean the TV thingie."

"But we didn't even see the demonstration," pointed out the spoilt girl.

"Dun't matter!" I proclaimed. "Who wants to try it?"

As I had rather anticipated, Nebbish the Third raised his hand immediately. A gleaming white smile spread across my face, much like a bared mouthful of teeth. However, what I wasn't expecting was what happened next— Mr. Nebbish pushed his son's hand down and stepped forward.

"Me first," he said, and his volunteering didn't sound particularly enthusiastic.

"Why, Mr. Nebbish, you sound downright suspicious of my fine achievement!" I said. "Why don't you let your son—"

"I'm positive its dangerous," he said. "I'll go first. Just in case."

"Just in case what? It gets you hurt in some way?"

Mr. Nebbish shifted uncomfortably and I fixed him with a steely stare. Like Steely Dan. Except completely different.

"Well," he said at length, "actually... the truth of the matter is..."

"Yes by all means, lets have the truth..."

"...I've always wanted to be on TV," he finished quietly.

I thought about this for a moment. "Well, then, sir, who am I to stand in the way between a man and his destined glory?" And I stepped aside. Because I had been standing in the way. Which means, I guess, that I had been the man standing in the way between a man and his destined glory, so the question is, who am I?

Whilst I pondered this, Mr. Nebbish got zapped.

The camera sent him deep into the heart of TV Land, where he encountered, in quick succession, in a variety of different settings, on various channels, in several ways, people. Some of them were nice, and some weren't, which is I suppose how things go on TV, but things were really going just fine until he got in the middle of a presidential debate.

Now, I'm not stupid, so I avoid politics. Seriously, a man with my talents and intelligence and good looks and charisma and leadership abilities and musical skills and moral code and standards and ethics would stick out like a sore thumb. Also, I have really cool hair. Mr. Nebbish, on the other hand, has none of that, and so he decided to take certain politicians to task.

I won't tell you which side he agreed with.

But someone got annoyed, and what happened next was kind of scary. You know, being famous ain't no picnic, which, since that was a double negative, means that being famous is actually fairly easy. Being a politician is dangerous, though, and if you try to do it without any real idea of what you're actually doing, there's a good chance you could get elected president. Which is almost what happened to our Mr. Nebbish, except for the opposing team got all het up about something or other and

Sudden thought, "all het up" about something, what exactly does "het" mean?

Uh, never mind. Where was I?

The opposing team got all het up about something, most likely that Mr. Nebbish wasn't even supposed to be there in the first place, and they decided

Maybe "hetero"?

No?

Just a thought.

They decided Mr. Nebbish needed to be taken care of. I don't mean like given a dental plan and a nice severance package, I mean that they

Maybe its like when gay people decide suddenly to go back into the closet? They get all het up?

Uh. They decided to kill him, not to beat around the bush.

Frightening things, politics. The Oompa Loompas were almost somber when they took the floor. Well... maybe "somber" isn't quite the word for it—

Overjoyed?

"What we know about Mr. Teevee

Could fit on a page or three

We know he's old, we know he's bald

We know that no one stands enthralled

Of every single move he makes

In fact we find, it seems to take

A while for him to move at all

And when he does, he often falls

He's just a klutz, it seems, and yet

There's not a reason yet to fret

The big break for Mr. Teevee

Is soon to come, apparently

He's on the tube, he's famous and

His lifestyle is now truly grand.

The problem here, as you will find

If you choose to voice your mind

You'd better be open to people who

Disagree with everything you do.

You'd better accept that they might

Defend what they believe is right.

And while its bad to be smashed beneath

A bunch of fans (it causes grief)

Its even worse to be made late

By those who look on you with hate.

Its not a crime of love, you see

That ended our Mr. Teevee

He should have known when he first came

That's just the standard price of fame."

We stood and watched the square of screen where recently Mr. Nebbish had been so alive and tiny and Wonkavisionafied. TM.

"That kind of sucks for him," observed his son astutely.

"Ah well," I said. "He will live on in reruns." Musing to myself about the transient nature of fame and also certain varieties of Scottish cheeses, which decompose extremely rapidly and leave little green mouldy and disturbingly alive-looking things in your refrigerator, I moved along, followed by a bunch of children. It was at this point, I believe, that I actually realized I was being _followed by a bunch of children, _and was forced to act accordingly.

"Gah!" I shouted, backing away from them in horror, waving my hands. "Guh— gah! Aiiii! Back! Away!"

They looked at me with uncompromising stoicness. Which, I have just discovered, isn't actually a word.

I stopped waving my arms and simply looked at them, wide-eyed and wild. "Where's your p— keepers? Owners? Where are they? How did this happen?"

"But, Willy," said Mandy, blinking innocently, and her father, whom I think isn't truly her father at all, nodded in agreement, "we're the only ones left."

Suddenly the enormity of this situation hit home.

"Oh, _fudge_," I swore.


	9. The Brilliant Return

**Chapter Nine: A Brilliant Return**

_In Which there are more Risque Jokes Than Ever, and also Children with Big Glassy Eyes_

The main problem, as I saw it, was that there were approximately a billion children in the world and, therefore, there wasn't much chance of these horrific specimens being taken, should I put them up for adoption. I wondered if there was any money in the child slave market these days. Would I get in trouble for doing that? Would I be able to buy my way out of it? Would the money I made selling the kids in the first place pay for my extensive legal bills? Was there life after death? Was there any chance of meeting some nice girl with good teeth who was even more socially retarded than I was?

"No," said Becky.

"Hush!" I commanded, "I was having a rhetorical conversation." I hate it when people answer me when I talk to myself.

"Maybe you shouldn't talk out loud, then," suggested Mandy.

"There you go again!" Will I never be free of the idiocy in the world?

"Not as long as you have yourself," said Mandy and Becky together, snickering, and I scowled.

"That's it! All you kids, out, out! Get out of my factory, get out of my room, get out of my head and don't forget to wipe your feet before you step outside!"

A blank stare.

"Why?" said Nebbish the Third. Blankly staring.

"Because I don't want you tracking up my nice clean cement, of course! What astupid question. Shoo, now, off you go."

"But Mr. Wonka," whined the gum chewing girl, "what about our prize?"

I gave them a blank stare of my very own. It was a much better version than their's, but this is only to be expected. I am Willy Wonka, after all.

Aren't I?

I think I am. I think, therefore I am. Sometimes I don't think, therefore I'm not, therefore did I just prove that I don't exist? These questions were confusing me.

"Not surprised," sighed Becky. "They're confusing all of us."

"Shut up!" I barked. "Nobody asked your opinion!"

I felt a tug at my pants leg and was about to tell Mandy to leave my trousers alone again, when I chanced to look down and beheld it to be an Oompa Loompa, looking rather distressed. In short order, he informed me, via a series of outre gestures and rude noises, kind of like a pretentiousFrench film, that there was someone to see me outside.

"Who?" I demanded, crossing my arms. "I don't step outside forjust anybody, you know."

The Oompa Loompa stared for a minute, breathing hard, then indicated that it was important. I stared back and, in the process, discovered that having a staring contest with a person only thirty inches tall is rather on the difficult side. I gave up, eventually, and, trying to get my neck back into place,walked sideways towards the front door. The children followed me, like little parasites running after some gothic version of thePied Piper of Hamlin. I never trusted that story anyway. How exactly does a piper get pied? It doesn't sound verylegitimate to me. Legitimacy isn'talways a big concern forme, of course, but I do think that if there's corrupt money tobe made then I should at least get a foot in the door early on. This isn't exactly something I can advertise, being in the business of candy. Unless I could put a positive spin on it somehow; "Corruption is your Friend!" maybe, in big friendly yellow letters. "Corruption Followed Me Home: Can I Keep It For A Pet?"

I walked into the doorframe three times before Imade it all the way through. Methinks I shouldn't have made them out of invisible wallpaper, even if it is lickable.

Once outside I was ready to turn on that bloody Oompa Loompa. Important, indeed! Why, it was only Slugworth. Istared him down. He's taller, so it was a bit easier. Unfortunatelyhe's also wall-eyed. I dodged side to side, trying to succeed in getting his gaze, but it was a lost battlebefore it began. So I straightened my shoulders and fixed one of his eyes with as firm a gaze as I myself could manage. To my credit, he flinched.

"Is there a problem, you despicable horse-faced fiend?"

"Of course there's a problem," he blustered. "There's always a problem! You've been stealing my recipes again, and furthermore I accuseyou of cruelty toanimals!"

"Nonsense!" I boomed, and gestured at the kidforce behind me. "They're fine!"

Heblinked. The effect was somewhat like watching a fish who's got an eyelash caught in his eye and can't seem to get it out, no matter what he does. "I was referring toyour fur coat."

"Oh. That."

"But there is, of course, the matter of the children. What concerns me the most is that you have them in your clutches and without parental supervision."

I spread my arms and appealed to thecrowd behind him. "Who do you think I am, Michael Jackson?"

There was a pause as they took certain aspects of me in. I scowled and adjusted my sunglasses.

"Nonsense!" I pulled out the bullhorn I used on occasion. "Nonsense!" I informed them, louder.

Slugworth shooks his head. "Let us address the difficulty of my recipes."

Ifolded my arms. That's surprisingly difficult to do in such a big coat. "Its well known that you are the one who steals recipes,Slugworth, not I."

"Ohreally?" he fumed. "Oh really? Oh really? Really? Oh?"

"What do you have to say to that?"

"Oh really? Really? Oh?"

"Anything else?"

"Oh really?"

"Apparently not." I sighed, waved to thecrowd, and turned to go.

"Just a darn minute!" cried Slugworth from behind me, and I turned to him once more. He dug in aslimy pocket and yanked something unidentifiable but definitely sleazy from it. "What do you make of these?"

I frowned. "Not much. What are they?"

"My nuts!" cried Slugworth triumphantly, and the crowd, as one voice, said, "Yuch."

"They belong inone of my delicious candy bars,"the corrupt candyman went on, rolling them around in his palm and advancing on me with a light in his eye like a demented ferret. "They'rea special species ofBlack Forest Walnut, coming complete with a cherry."

I snorted. "I'll bet."

Slugworth glared. To be glared at byawalleyed man is nothing to be sneezed at, although it is certainly something to be frightened by. I took a step back involuntarily. "I developed them. I made them. I created them. I invented them. I bore them. They're mine. You're using them."

I paused for a moment, and narrowed my eyes at him. A useless gesture, since he couldn't see past my sunglasses, but I putforth the effort nonetheless. "Nuts," I repeated quietly. "Youdeveloped, made, created, invented, and bore them, they're yours, and you say I use them? Nonsense. In fact, nuts. Nuts? I say nuts to your nuts!" I threw my arms in the air and turned to the crowd. "A deliberate smear campaign! He's trying to get at me and using his nuts to pave the way! Seize him!"

The crowd roared, like a whale tryingfor the tenth time to set the VCR to record the six AM showing of _The Addams Family_ and, again, failing. They advanced on Slugworth, and proceeded to steal his wallet. I cheered them on. The children cheered them on. We were very cheerful, all told. However, I heard a discussion going on to my left.

One old man leaned over to another old man and whispered, consumptively, "They always did say that Wonkawas a little nuts."

I turned on them. "Nonsense!" I bellowed. "There's nothing little about my nuts! I'm well known to have the largest in the business!Squirrels adore them!"

Unexpectedly, this toorecieved a cheer. I waved once more to the crowd, and turned again to go back inside.

But there was a voice in the crowd, and some movement, and a scrawny, underfed little boy came tumbling out of the cheering mass of candy-consuming humanity. He stepped forward, eyes wide and glassy, nose pug, face freckled, ears ajar. He lifted a trembling finger and pointed at Mandy and Becky.

"Those girls stole my ticket!" he said.

Time stood still, like it wanted the papparazzi to get a good shot.


End file.
